Like Drinking a Glass of Water
by Love is a Topping
Summary: A story of love through the years, told by an outsider. (OC, slow development, after The Promise of Reunion ending)
1. Chapter 1

Kids at Lowell's always turned out strange. Or at least, that was what Joshua had been told. He hadn't been proven wrong yet, so he assumed the truth in it. Lowell's was all he ever had. Though it took a long time to come to terms with his rootless beginnings, he found that it was as decent a home as any. Gratitude was something that didn't come easy to him, but he could cobble together some for his home of eighteen years.

Even if he wasn't inclined to feel gratitude, he knew his debts and paid them accordingly. He had originally bought the kid – and Garry was still a kid, no matter that he was eighteen and just like him – a few packs of cigarettes and condoms. All perfect for his introduction into manhood. But Garry was determined to quit, so he replaced the cigarettes with a few cough drops. And Garry was a ridiculously shy and reserved guy, so he pocketed the condoms and bought more cough drops. It was sacrilegious.

Lowell's was a short walk from the corner store. He always bought cigarettes here with some pocket money he earned from chores. Garry was smart for wanting to quit. But he had been smoking since he could work and walk. It was too late for him. It was almost too bad; they had bonded over deliberately deep drags of the cancer sticks, acting as cool and uncaring as the rest of the world. Garry never did manage to get the act right.

How was Garry these days? He stole a cough drop out of Garry's gift and made a face. Lemon. It still wasn't as bad as cherry. Just the smell of it made him sick. He hoped Garry still liked lemon. It was strange to be walking up this path once again.

He had been kicked out of Lowell's when he turned eighteen. It wasn't a very traumatic or interesting ordeal, only expected. He packed his things and left before they could call a cab. It was nice of them to take him to the city – nice, but completely insincere. It was almost like an apology for him getting too old to take state money. They'd offered to drop him in front of a homeless shelter, like that was all he would ever get to have. So instead, he walked out of there with a backpack of trinkets and his head held high.

He wished he could say he never looked back, but he had Garry – Garry, who was only fourteen and still dependent on love like all the other well adjusted children. Garry who lost his mother and had nothing left but love and longing because damn Shakespeare, it _was_ better to never know love than to have it ripped from you. And when they thought he was calling to beg for money or a place to sleep, he really was just calling for Garry. And he'd talk all about how he was alright, and the city wasn't as big as the stories make it seem but it sure is bigger than Lowell's. He was alright, he found a job. He met a girl, he broke her heart. He's sick to death of the noise at night when he just wants a lick of sleep. He wanders the city a lot. He likes to talk to strangers. Strangers like ignoring him.

Then he'd listen to Garry – Garry, who talked politely without ever saying anything, Garry who failed to finish the bottle of cough syrup when he was tired of dreaming of what used to be. The same Garry he punched and punched until the kid threw up most of the syrup and laid there with the most pathetic expression he had ever seen. He didn't know if you could O.D. on cough syrup, but he had seen others die in stranger ways so he didn't chance it that day. And he still doesn't regret it.

What he does regret is not buying that pack for Garry. With a heavy sigh, Joshua kicked his now empty cigarette pack into the street. It really was a good idea for Garry to try to quit. But, what could he say? Old habits die hard? You can't teach an old dog new tricks? Suicide by cancer stick?

Whatever the saying goes, he managed to find his way to the out-of-the-way foster home known as Lowell's. Each home has its ghosts, and Lowell's was no different. It was the same as he remembered. If in a certain mood, he might call it decrepit, lonely, or desolate. But the truth was that Lowell's was nothing of the sort. It was an average house that, while a bit worn, was kept nicely with the help of the patron's staff and a few children who wanted pocket change. Sure, the outer gate still squeaked regardless of the amount of oiling it received, and the paint always chipped every couple of years, and sometimes the garden would be over run and other times it was neatly trimmed, but overall, Lowell's hadn't changed. He wasn't sure it he felt depressed or relieved.

"Joshua," he glanced at his best – _only_ – friend. Garry was a fascinating subject. Dressed like a street urchin with the posture of a prince. They were in the same group – ratty, thinning jackets, holed jeans, and torn up shoes. But whereas he had held himself in the same group as a cat – a crouch, a defensive position put to ease by his off center grin – Garry was a the complete opposite. Perhaps they shared a sort of animalistic look – he'd hoped so, after all, he bought that jacket for Garry – but he was the embodiment of wild and Garry was a decent guy. A bit of a sissy, perhaps but Garry was a good guy.

"Get your ass kicked to the curb yet?" He scratched at his jaw to keep the tone light. But Garry still gave a half-grimace. "'Thought I told you not to smile like that. Makes you look sad and pathetic – more than you usually do."

"Ms. Sally said that I have until curfew to gather my possessions."

"Still polite as fuck; you'd think that I'd have more of a bad influence on you."

"You don't have to throw curses around like candy," Garry made a face,

"Hah," Joshua threw his head back with the sharp sound, "you sound like my ex. Speaking of which; crash at my place."

"Excuse me?"

"Trust me; it's better than a homeless shelter. Well, not by much. I've got a shitty place, but it can fit two."

Because in the end, the only reason he even looked back at Lowell's was because of Garry. No one, not a single person, even took a second look at him. He was the lowest of the low, even at the foster home. Some kids were angry and misunderstood. He was half of them. Some kids learned to be decent people, and went on earning scholarships and degrees and repaying their dues to Lowell's. He wasn't one of them. They thought he mellowed out with age, but he only learned to stop caring. They didn't expect to make anything out of him, so he didn't expect them to help him at all. In the end, the world could burn and all he would care about was if he could light another cigarette. But Garry treated him like a decent human being, not a delinquent. Garry treated everyone with the same polite distance, so he made it a challenge to get under his skin.

Instead, Garry was the one who got under his skin, burned his veins, and let him feel the most basic of concerns for another human's wellbeing.

-x-x-x-

He has always loved with a passion. But they never stuck around once they learned that passion burned cold and short. A night, a week, a month – he could pretend to be wildly passionate. That was all he could offer to these women. He lived in a crummy apartment and worked long hours as a construction worker. But every woman he seduced was a romantic. They were princesses who fell for the street rat who had nothing but his heart to give. Until they learned that his heart wasn't crystal but only hard plastic and they left. But to be fair, he has left his fair share as well – left them as the day begun with the excuse of work mumbled on his dry lips.

Living with a woman was impossible. Luckily, Garry didn't act too much like a woman. He found himself unwittingly falling into a routine – eating breakfast at the table and late dinners at the couch with only annoying reruns and infomercials on the television. He was out almost all day with the construction work and Garry insisted on completing his education at a local community college.

The women stopped coming and going. They always seemed to like Garry – his quiet, polite roommate – over the wildly passionate and crazy plans he could conjure. It almost wasn't fair. It made him sick to see these scarlet women throw themselves at Garry. He was a person with ambitions, plans, and respect for the other gender. It made him sick. And who was Joshua? He was a sleazy, sexist pig under a pile of red roses. He might have been a bit jealous.

And he might have been a bit of an opportunist. Garry didn't say anything when he brought twins to meet his "shy" roommate. And if he used Garry's gentlemanly ways to do ungentlemanly things to the two, well, it was only a good opportunity.

He had unwittingly fallen into a routine with his best friend over the years. So to shake it up, he dragged the man into an art gallery he had worked on. They had worked several days to bring in the delicate pieces and heavy sculptures and as a result, he had free tickets for the opening week.

Garry was studying art in college. He wondered, with a crooked smile, if he would have done the same. If he had a steady home, would he also complete his education? He could have been one of those Lowell's kids, the ones who actually become contributing members to society. Or at least, he thinks he could have. Whatever the case, art was a fruitless effort. He knew that he could make more money as a laborer than by scraping by as an artist. It was only common sense.

And yet, he was enabling a hopeless dream by dragging his friend to a new art exhibit. Well, Garry didn't need to be dragged. Instead, Joshua listened with half an ear as Garry rattled on about shading or form or whatever artsy terms came pouring out of his lips. He hadn't paid much attention when they moved the still covered pieces into the gallery, but now, being surrounded by these images, he felt uncomfortable. Whoever this "Guertena" was, he didn't need to know. All of these pieces were strange. Mannequins without heads, a hanged man, the lady in red – it was all a very strange look into something that didn't feel like the real world. Guertena, the poor bastard, was very, very strange.

And Garry's enthusiasm for them was even stranger. He spent the time flitting amongst the paintings, looking far too comfortable in the world of art than any man should. When asked to return the next day, he gave the excuse of work mumbled upon dry lips.


	2. Chapter 2

It was only fitting that death would come on a bright summer day. Or at least, that's how a poet would see it. It was rather stupid to see Garry escape the claws of death again.

He was curious about the kid. They had exchanged words – pleasantries, not always false but never sincere – but he had never had the chance to really observe the other boy. He did know that Garry wasn't a thief, so watching him filch the cough syrup from the medicine cabinet was interesting. But watching the kid chug it down like a man dying of thirst was just as interesting in the worst of ways.

They found him just as he managed to hide the empty bottle. But looking at the still dry-heaving Garry and the pile of warm vomit was an obvious conclusion. He was punished, of course. It only made sense; he had fought other kids, new kids who were angry and bitter like him. It only made sense. He was bitter and snappy as he breathed in the cold night air. Only the smell of his cigarette could cut through the chilled air. That was when Garry came to him. There was an apology, perhaps. Though he may not remember, he remembered the gist of it. He was angry and annoyed. He taunted the kid – fourteen, he realized, and almost dead – about his apparent stupidity.

"I just wanted to sleep," was Garry's excuse. Suddenly, or it was sudden to him, Joshua was the unwilling recipient of all of Garry's nightmares and fears. It was nothing unusual; the exact same fears that haunted Garry haunted a lot of Lowell's kids. Here, he likes to think he had something meaningful to say. Perhaps he told Garry that being alone is hell, or that it is absolutely normal for an orphan to feel this way. He might have quoted Shakespeare, only because the lines are too famous not to quote.

But he doesn't remember his response. He spoke, only for a bit, and failed to say the words that were on his mind. It was nothing unusual. He could talk a lot and say absolutely nothing. The words always got stuck in the cogs between his brain and mouth. What he does remember was that he threw his lighter and a pack at the kid. The two smoked away his meager supply in a single night, leaving him to wake up to crusty eyes and a mouth of soot.

He was used to having Garry tell him about these fears, and had done the same – in a smaller, more manageable way.

Yet here he was, smoking away one of his few free days on a dirty couch in a crummy apartment. Biting the edge of his cigarette and trying not to let the ashes catch onto the coffee table. He has always hated the feeling of helplessness and has taken every precaution to not feel that way. Take life by both hands, he has always said, and strangle that bitch. That is his philosophy. Nothing less.

The last trails of smoke fade out the window but the itch remains in his chest. The new pack is empty. There is a burning sun in the sky – summer, he dreads the season. There is nothing worse than working in the hot sun. The heat clouds his mind, his temper. He can never think when it is hot. All there is to focus on is the insufferable heat that presses onto him. The burning sun lays high in the sky, and he knows that he has to get the AC fixed soon. It will only get worse.

Soon there is only the smell of cigarette smoke left. He debates the matter in his head – sit on the couch or buy a fan. Shopping in the cold artificial air or sitting in this hell hole. There is another soft whimper against the door. His teeth grind together, the feel of it is uncomfortable like crumpled paper against the soft skin. He forces himself to look at the stained ceiling.

There was a time when Garry used to tell him about these fears, and he had done the same. He couldn't imagine a terror so horrid that Garry would not tell him. Kids – and Garry was still a kid, no matter that he was a year away from legal drinking and had been living with an alcoholic smoker for the last two years – had the funniest fears. He could bet on Garry's fears being related to death or insanity. It was the same tune sung over the years.

He lets out a shuddering breath and knows that Garry is probably doing the same. Already noon but the kid is still asleep – that's the college life, he assumes. Was, his mind supplies. Eyes flash into sudden awareness. The shuddering breath gives way to a soft thump as Garry manages to slip onto the floor. The sock covered feet drag along the carpeting like the march of a weary soldier. A hand cannot hold his body from leaning onto the door, head tucked as if the neck is unable to bear its weight. It takes a moment to release him from the cold terror of dreams, then Garry opens the door and –

"Good morning" – steps into the living room with a polite smile.

"Afternoon." It is not a sullen reply, just an uncaring one. His frown deepens as Garry flashes him an indulgent smile. All he wants is to take the boy by the shoulders and demand to know what haunts him. It is the same routine repeating for a month. Somewhere between then and now, something had changed. He hates change.

"Is it already? My apologies, I'll just be a moment more." Too polite. He sees the growing circles under Garry's eyes and barks a harsh reply.

"Another shower?"

"It's warm."

"Understatement of the year," And lets him go again. When, Joshua wonders, when had a forest grown between the two of us? The water begins to run and he can't stand to be here any longer. It is unbearably hot. He thinks buying a fan might help. And knows that it won't.


	3. Chapter 3

He spends the entire day in the mall, not window shopping or even enjoying himself. All he wants to do is avoid the heat. Nothing more. The mall is just as bad as dealing with the outside world. Children run unguarded, the girls talk too loudly and the boys laugh too freely. They think that it is all a safe haven. That is only a deluded thought.

There is nowhere in the world that is safe. These people don't remember that only eight years ago, there was a horrible accident in the mall. Yes, where these children play and girls and boys laugh, there was a terrible accident. No one speaks of it, that's why the place can remain so popular. He remembers clearly.

It is almost sad how quickly people forget. That was what Lowell's was – a place of forgotten memories. He almost laughs in the midst of his walk – comparing people to forgotten memories is nothing more than a fool's thought. He is a walking, forgotten memory. If only his English teacher could see him waxing poetry now.

But none of that matters. It is in the past. When the past is forgotten, it becomes nothing. It leaves nothing. He made a promise long ago to never forget. How could he? He knows what it is like to be forgotten, so how could he possibly forget? It is only logical.

So he hangs onto the past without the will to face it. There is nothing more tragic than that singular fact. This time, he doesn't bother to bite back the bitter chuckles. Some people scatter about him. It has always been that way. Don't touch the street rat. Don't get close. Don't even look at them. He laughs even as he makes his way home. The setting sun in the background does nothing for the heat creeping onto his neck.

All the windows are thrown wide open, but there is no sign of life in the apartment. The cigarette tray remains full on the coffee table. There are two unmade beds with the bodies of two pressed deep into them. A few soda cans linger on the kitchen counter – he can't even pretend that there are the same amount of beer cans on the counter top. All he can do is hope to God that Garry left to buy more booze. No such luck, of course. Garry likes to buy legitimate items.

The entire place is in disarray from two bachelors living together, yet there is no life in this place. He curses aloud, soft at first, then becoming harsh. There are no cigarettes. He knocks a not completely empty can to the floor. There are no cigarettes. He slumps into the couch, letting his clothes, sticky with sweat, cling onto his body. There is nothing on TV and still no cigarettes.

Nighttime, and there is a flash that blinds him momentarily. Then he remembers that he fell asleep, irritated and still pissed at nothing. The lights turn off just as quickly.

"Sorry,"

"Do you have alcohol?"

"What?"

"Did you buy some more alcohol? On your way back?"

"I can't."

"Cigarettes then. Did you?"

"No, why would I?"

"Turn on the fucking lights. I can't talk to you in the dark." Garry stands guilty in the hallway. "Where were you?"

"I just went out with a friend. Have you eaten yet?" Lies. Garry doesn't have friends. All he has are people that he smiles politely at – people that he pretends he likes and they like him back and no one is using one another.

But Joshua isn't his parent. Joshua isn't even a friend. So he stands up and closes the door behind him. His back aches lightly from sitting on the couch. There is a soft knock at his door – everything Garry does is soft and polite and gentle. It is pathetic. He ignores it. The knock persists.

"Are you upset with me?"

"No, I'm tired," Lies. Joshua is never tired. All he has two emotional settings: annoyed and downright pissed.

"Were you worried about me?"

"Go to bed." He plans to sleep quickly – if it was possible. He has always had trouble falling into sleep. One thought leads to another and he finds himself getting more worked up over nothing in the silence of the night than in the heat of the day. But the faster he forces sleep, the less terror he will hear from Garry.

"Goodnight," but tonight, Garry does not shuffle about the house. He does not hear the sounds of running water and creaking footsteps. He does not have to listen to the hesitant opening and sly shutting of Garry's door across the hallway. There is silence. And in that silence, all he can see is a looming forest tearing the land in half. There are no terrors tonight, so he should rest easy. He should. He scratches at his arms in a contemplative anger.

-x-x-x-

He doesn't beg. It isn't part of his nature, his genetic coding. Somewhere along the line of egg meeting sperm, the coding for begging and all those pesky emotions got cut off. Joshua isn't the begging sort. Rather, he bargains with a coworker to trade shifts and has another day off. The day starts off bright and early and he leaves as if he had work. He hangs with the shady crew, laughing too freely and talking too loudly.

He acts like a stranger in front of his own house to watch Garry leave, freshly clothed and faintly scented. He tries to follow, but becomes lost in a different part of town. There is nothing but high end stores and other rich-er people things in this area. It is the decent part of town. He spits on the white sidewalk. The art gallery was in this area as well. He forces his path to cross the gallery. He wants nothing more than to leave.

Luckily, it is closed. He watches, entranced as the paintings are loaded onto a truck inside of the closed gates. The cloth over once slips, and he recognizes it immediately. _The Hanging Man_, he read the title. He couldn't see the appeal of the painting at the time, which had Garry launching into a discussion of style and form and other artsy terms he had no clue about. It was just a disturbing portrait, but Garry's enchanted expression was more so. He had to physically drag Garry to see some other works in the gallery, but still, the boy gave a longing look to the painting.

There was nothing at all interesting about the painting. In light of the other works, it was even, to some degree, average. But when he saw Garry's eyes soften in front of the painting, all he could remember was warm vomit and the smell of cherry cough syrup. He grabbed Garry then and there, uncaring of the stares around. And there would always be stares because Garry was not an ugly looking guy. The smell of it made him sick. All he knew was that Garry could not look at that painting anymore. It was just too sickening. He could barely stand to see Garry's awe-filled gaze on such a horrid picture.

So when Garry asked if he wanted to return to the gallery, his usual excuse of having to work tumbled out on unsteady lips.

-x-x-x-

He thinks of the gallery, picking it apart with his mind. Perhaps, he becomes desperate in his thoughts, perhaps if I understand the gallery, I can come to terms with it. But still, the circles under his eyes grow. He smiles at the poorly hidden worry under Joshua's gruff disposition. Still, he lies in his bed, wondering if he can ever feel safe again. Why him? Of all the people, why was he chosen to go into that place? Mary wanted to be a part of Ib's family. Something about Ib made Mary very happy. So why? Why was he the sacrifice?

Something like anger rises and falls in him. He can't muster the strength to be upset. After all, he met Ib. That girl is the light of his life. He grins at the mere thought of her cute smile. But the joy vanishes quickly. He can't help but be affronted. Why was he chosen?

It had to be someone who wouldn't be missed. He has no family, but he has Joshua. If he was simply erased from the world – it scares him, this truth, but if he was erased one day, nothing would change. The world would continue on. Joshua would be the same surly man he was as a boy. If Mary replaced him – here, he lets out a cold shuddering breath – it would be perfectly fine. Maybe that's the reason.

He can't even imagine the sort of power that painting had. Could she have erased him? Something tells him that she could. He remembers a hazy awareness in front of a statue of a red rose. And for a moment, he had almost forgotten. If he hadn't seen the handkerchief on his hand and recalled her – he tries not to think of it. He would have held onto this fear with no rational reasoning for it. It would have driven him into insanity.

Leaving that world made him forget. Memories are so fragile. He wonders if that world could make anyone forget. He wonders if it can make everyone forget. If everyone forgot him – he shivers at the thought. That can't be the only reason. If it was, it could have been him or Joshua or any other desperate orphan visiting the gallery. This thought plagues him, more so than the terror of being killed. He can't figure it out: why him? Of all the people that visited the gallery that day, why was he chosen?

He hasn't told anyone. Not even Ib knows. But then again, he doesn't want to bring up anything from the gallery in their conversations. He has slept better, knowing that she is safe. But still, he doesn't tell. He only remembers. He can only rationalize. That world can alter memories, and also time. Once he had returned, only a few hours had passed. It felt like an eternity. He can only remember. He can only remember the eternity he spent there. And he can only wonder how time works, and why he had to spend so long suffering.

Because no one, not even Garry himself, knew how long he spent in that world alone.


	4. Chapter 4

Because he returns home one day to a new sort of chaos. Because he realizes that he has called it home now that Garry lives with him. Because he has always resented change in all its forms. Reasons, excuses, lies, he gives them all. Because, because, because – always blaming and never accepting his faults. He has always been this way.

"Summer cleaning?" His mocking tone startles Garry from his mad rearranging. He breathes deeply through his nostrils to avoid blowing up then and there.

"Yeah. It was starting to smell."

"Of what? Smoke?"

"Yes,"

"I always have. What's the big deal?"

"Because then I smell like smoke too. You see, I'm meeting this girl tomorrow-"

"Oh," He hisses, "So some chick is making you do this? How long is she gonna stay over? All night? All day? I don't mind the two of you fucking, but if she's bothered by these little things, then you'd better lose the bitch."

"Don't call Ib that."

"What sort of shitty name is that? I bet she's a rich kid, one of those bitches-"

"Shut up!" There is a moment of pause. A slow realization, then the bloody spit lands on the carpet. Garry holds himself close, half in horror and half in shock. It only makes him smile wider. It wasn't because of Garry. He wasn't expecting it. He had just bit his tongue to avoid angering Garry, but the words tumbled out nevertheless. The right hook to the jaw just forced him to bite harder, enough to draw blood. It makes his smile widen.

Then, he is in Lowell's again. He is a kid, angry with the world and himself and everything. There is no cough syrup, but he throws punch after punch and Garry has never played fair.

The setting sun begins to steal the heat haze away. He rolls off his sore side to face Garry who continues to ignore him. There is nothing interesting on the ceiling of their crummy apartment, so Garry must be ignoring him. He breaks their silence.

"We're a right mess." Garry barks out a bitter laugh that sounds just like his. In that moment, he knows that Garry has never looked more like himself. Troubled thoughts brew behind darkened eyes. Though placid, there is still a spark of anger in his muscles. This is only a ceasefire. They are only two sweaty, bruised men with nothing to gain out of life. He grins in spite of himself. "We're a right mess," he repeats.

"Isn't that the truth," Garry's soft voice carries toward him.

"What's on your mind?" And Garry is tight-lipped as ever. He exhales sharply. Somewhere in their struggle, he dropped his pack and he has no clue where they landed. The entire room is a mess, worse than what he came home to. Something broken lies near their heads. "Well?"

"I don't know."

"What?"

"I don't know." He flinches at the quivering sound of the beginnings of a break down. He's seen Garry go through them before. How can a boy like that talk so much and say so little? Or maybe he says a lot - Joshua has never been good at reading between the lines. But Garry - sweet, polite, always hiding Garry - has always had a way to cut to the matter of things.

"Then figure it out," he stands now, "quit moping and fix your shit." He stands and brushes off some imaginary dust. "We'll clean this later. I'm beat." Coward. His steps quicken. Coward.

"Joshua," Garry sits up now. All he can hope is that things return to the way they were, and Garry will sudden spill all his troubles onto his ears. But that time has already passed.

"What'dya want now?"

"…nothing," He clicks his tongue and hates himself for the sound of it. It sounds just like the matron, and every other adult that gave up on him.

"Something's eating at you, and you won't tell me. And until you do, I can't do shit. So suck it up and figure it out, or man up and confess already." Retreating is what he knows best, so he shuts the door with a light slam and throws himself into bed. He has the early shift and it's already nearing midnight.

Never looking back, he fails to see the grateful smile on thin lips.

-x-x-x-

He watches the circles disappear like some figment of his imagination. Day by day, things seem to improve. It does not return to normal. Garry spends his time with that Ib girl. He doesn't smoke inside the apartment anymore; it has actually lowered his nicotine levels. There is always a struggle between his inherent laziness and complete addiction to nicotine, and more often than not, he only smokes outside to cut the craving.

Smoking outside has a different feel than inside. It feels like a circus show, with disapproval being the only applause he'll ever get. Look at that man kill himself, they laugh, what an idiot. He stamps out the last of the ashes from his cigarette. The anger on his face is enough to send those kids running. Everyone is a critic. Laugh it up, he wants to yell, laugh at a man's normal routine. No sound is worse in the world than the condescending laughter from children.

He only does this as a compromise. Garry is too stubborn, he thinks, and too used to getting his way. Rather than quitting the habit, he simply moves it. They have already had this conversation; he is too old to quit smoking. And Garry has been clean for several months already.

Months pass so quickly. Memories do not. He knows Garry has the terrors often, but no longer every night. The girl is a good distraction. Whatever haunts Garry seems to have lessened. He is almost glad. But being unable to smoke indoors is unacceptable. He takes his second stick from the pack.

At that moment, a little red-eyed girl passes him. She stops in her walk, watching him attempt to light the cigarette in the cool breeze. Autumn already causes him endless headaches. He should have bought a replacement lighter. Instead, he is borrowing one of Garry's old ones. The fancy ones never work as well in the wind.

She has yet to move. He shoots the kid a glare, but she still does not move. Her gaze, inquisitive and befuddled, does nothing to calm his nerves. A kid shouldn't unnerve him. His frown deepens, but still she stares. They are two strangers at a crossroads, but still, she has a disturbing and piercing gaze. At last, the cigarette catches and he intakes all the ashes and smoke. It must be fascinating, for a little kid, to watch him slowly kill himself. It was more fascination for him, as a little kid, to slowly kill himself.

In spite of his turbulent thoughts, the girl visibly shakes herself and returns her joyful bounce into the apartment building. It doesn't matter to him. He just wants to nap before his impending night shift. But first, his craving must be answered. He practices blowing smoke rings into the air. What a strange kid, he thinks. It takes him a long while to stop dawdling in the burning sun.

There are voices in their home, a girl and Garry laughing. He hesitates to enter. When did the girl arrive? Had he missed her? He must reek of smoke, but the only way to rid himself of it is to shower. And that would require entering the apartment. The voices are soft, muffled by the doorway. He knows he heard laughter clearly.

He has smoked only another cigarette or two. There is still light in the day, perhaps enough for an hour or so. The lighter in his hand is pleasantly cool. It is a simple steel color with the brand etched into it – nothing particularly remarkable about it. The voices continue, soft and lovely. He turns, shoving both hands into the large pockets of his jeans.

He needs cigarettes. That is his reason, his excuse, and his lie.


	5. Chapter 5

We have been waiting for a very, very long time. People come and go, come and go. No one stays. So we have been waiting. We have been watching you as you watch us. Do you like us? We like you a lot. Don't you want to play? We can play all day, all the time, forever and ever. Come in.

Why are you hesitating? We know that you will be happy here. We have seen the unshed tears. We have seen the deep sorrow penetrating your very soul. We have seen it reflected in your eyes as you watch us and we watch you. It could be no other; you are our only. No other will do. We want you.

This world is governed by her. She wants more than all of us combined. Her desire fuels this world, so she is its master. But we can help you. We can protect you. When she is gone from this world, when her desires are fulfilled, then we can be happy. We can be so very happy. We don't want her here. She doesn't want us. She only has eyes for another. You are just a stepping stone in her dark path. Please listen.

She is the most dangerous of us all. We can be dangerous; we will admit that. But not to you - never to you. We will not hurt any part of your body. You have always been a frail boy, haven't you? We will be careful. You are our most precious. But she will hurt you. She wants nothing more than to live. That is not right. That is not our way. We exist only here, in our world. She cannot live. She must exist. But because she wishes to live, she is the most dangerous. Her desires will cost you your life. We will protect you. Please, please listen. We know all about you, and we still like you. We know.

We know the hurt you feel inside. We know about your mother. We know about the bright lights. We know about the cough syrup. You do not belong in that world, nor do you want to. Do you not want to be with us? Please stay. That is what you want, isn't it? We know you will be happy here. We will listen carefully. We are all you will ever need. Why do you want to leave?

No, there is nothing there for you. That man is not your friend. How could he be? Would a friend go against your wishes? He wants to use you. He does not like us. He does not see how you hurt. We know. We have seen your heart and we want nothing more than to open it. You do not need to hide among friends. We know everything about you. We know of your guilt.

You killed her. You killed your mother. She was only doing the best for the two of you – all alone in a mad, mad world – and you killed her. You should have been more considerate. You should have been more kind. You should have bit back the words instead of screaming them into the bright headlights of another car. You killed her.

But we can forgive you. Isn't that what you have longed for your entire life? Repentance? All you have to do is come and play with us. Take this rose. Do you not like it? With that, you can be here forever and ever and ever with us. Let's play a game. Here are the rules: if you lose all those petals on your rose, then you get to stay forever. Alright?

This is a fun game. We have never had so much fun. Do not be sad; you might win the next game. Do you like tag? Hide and seek? Charades? We do not want this game to end so soon, but there will be more. Many more. In this world, we can play all the time. Oh. You seem to have lost this game. What fun! What fun!

We win.

Wait, what is going on? No, you lost those petals already. That's _cheating_! Wait…

_Wh_**O ****_i_**_S __**s**__h_**E**?

-x-x-x-

He didn't mean to. At least, this time he didn't. He has done this before, "stumbling" upon Garry's past dates. It is too enjoyable to watch Garry become even more flustered. And those women are always offended by his dark humor. In his defense, it turns Garry into the victim. He is the ill mannered, crass roommate that poor, heroic Garry must put up with. Women love that crap. He should win a medal.

But he recalls that carefree laughter he heard from the outside. Perhaps that Ib girl is good for Garry. Whatever haunted him was suddenly lifted with her presence. He might actually like this girl. Anyone who makes the real Garry emerge can't be too bad. Even if it is a woman.

The real Garry is something locked deep inside of his friend. It makes him laugh just a little bit. Because on the inside, Garry's a bigger liar than he'll ever be. Of course, coming from a liar, that doesn't mean a single thing. Who would believe that kind, honest, gentlemanly Garry could ever tell a lie? They're one and the same, cut from the same dirty stone that Lowell's likes to churn out. His English teacher would call it a paradox. It's just truth – not the truth, but a truth. That's why he's always hated English. It just gives him a reason to be wishy-washy with his words. And words are powerful things. Screw the sticks and stones, he thinks he'll break under the right words tumbling out from Garry's mouth.

But Garry's far too polite for that. He knows his friend well. He knows the way Garry bites back annoyance and rudeness, something ingrained in him from a young age. It's hilarious, in a sort of tragic way. It's the same problem all adults develop. In the words of a wise stoner he once ran with: "they're just constipated with the feels." But seeing Garry break free of that plastic mold – and Garry's really never pulled it off as well as he thought he could – that makes this "Ib" girl more tolerable.

That's why he says that he didn't mean to. It was a sort-of accident crossed with a bit of luck and raw coincidence – not fate, never fate, he doesn't believe in that bitch. But walking past the window of a restaurant, he just happens to catch that purple seaweed that Garry calls hair. It isn't his fault that he can spot that exact shade of off-purple from a good distance, above the crowd of people, and through some cloudy glass. He didn't mean to.

Nevertheless, he sees Garry and snakes into the crowd to catch a glimpse of the elusive Ib. Only once has he gotten Garry to even talk about her, and that was when they were hot-headed with the summer haze. He follows a small group of people – the streets are only beginning to become crowded as dinnertime approaches. Then he makes an abrupt turn into a young couple, stumbling past without a rushed apology, and walks past the restaurant once more. He has to do a double take.

There is no lady, just a little red-eyed girl whose stare remains confused and curious. He touches his pocket to remind himself – yes, Garry's lighter is in there. She's so young – no, Garry's also young. There is no possible way. How old is she? Eight? Nine? All little kids look the same age. How old is Garry? Numbers, numbers running through his head – still too young. Twenty minus eight – just to be safe – is only twelve. When do boys go through puberty? Too young. Can't be. No. Stop freaking out over nothing – he shakes himself from his thoughts.

But by then, the little red-eyed girl had caught Garry's attention and focused it on him. He wonders just how long he has been standing outside this bakery – not a restaurant, he realizes, not with that smell of freshly baked food that makes him hungrier than he was when he left his shift. People begin to stare at him, the creepy, angry-looking, sweaty construction worker standing outside a cute European-style bakery. But he can't even focus on a single person's stare. He only sees Garry's unrestrained frown.

Fuck.


	6. Chapter 6

Garry walks the kid outside of the bakery, opening the door for her like he would do for any other person. And yet, there is something gentler about it. But it is just normal behavior for well-mannered Garry. There is nothing strange about it. He scratches at his arms thoughtfully. They hold hands – one is tall with a ratty coat and purple hair, the other is young with red eyes and a pristine school uniform. Too young, he reminds himself, so who is she?

"Hey," he greets Garry with an off-center smile.

"I thought you were already home." Garry copies his smile.

"I was picking up another pack," the lie flows seamlessly.

"Already?"

"I get the shakes around this time of year." Garry makes a neutral hum in the back of his throat. There is a lull in conversation. This pause is even enough for the little girl to recognize. She holds onto Garry, but does not hide behind him. He forces another grin, "So, who's the kid?"

"This is Ib, a friend," Garry sends him a warning glare that does not go unnoticed, "And Ib, this is Joshua. He's my roommate." But neither party offers a hand to the other. Ib looks up with her red eyes boring into his very being. He sends a critical eye back. She is nothing more than a little rich brat. It makes him wonder which sucker conned Garry into babysitting her.

"You were smoking," she breaks the spell first.

"Can't stand the smell?"

"Outside Garry's home. You were smoking."

"Well I can't do it indoors anymore, thanks to-"he cuts himself off with a quick glance at Garry's slowly erupting fury, "the AC,"

"That doesn't make sense."

"Sure it does. I can't smoke indoors 'cause the AC's out." He brushes his hand against the pocket with Garry's lighter in it. "So, how do you know Garry?"

"He helped me at the gallery." Ib says along with Garry's rushed offer: "Should I picked up a pack at the drugstore?"

It makes him raise an eyebrow. _Really?_ he says with a patronizing smile. They both know the game they play. He doesn't play nice and none of Garry's "friends" ever like it. Then Garry is the victim and he is the abuser and everything is right in the world.

Instead, there is a growing feeling of wrongness in the pit of his stomach. This isn't their usual dance. He knows Garry is ashamed of him. Who wouldn't be? He's just a sucker on a dead end street punching in at eighty with no brakes. Oh, it's always been this way. Garry doesn't want his nice friends to meet the big bad wolf. But those aren't his friends. They are the people that Garry puts up with day in and day out.

He knows they are the same that way. Liar, liar, the mirror mockingly sings from its place hidden behind the red velvet curtain. He doesn't think of his work. They are a bunch of idiots, content with the slums of life. He once had the ability to pity them. They think that they are lucky to have a job. It is a waste of his talents.

And looking at Garry, he knows that the kid feels the same. He sees the condescending, barely-tolerant patience Garry treats his classmates with. They are people that Garry interacts with out of social necessity or convenience or some other reason besides enjoyment. So in the end, Garry doesn't mind if he drops in unexpectedly. In fact, Garry lives off of it. He is just an excuse to escape the situation.

There is no need for escape. He is just the bothersome roommate getting in between two obvious (he hopes) good friends – age gap aside. With that being said, their dance comes to a close but he remains. If a character remains onstage and the curtains close and he has missed his cue, what is to become of the character? But those are only the musings of a construction worker.

"…have it?" He doesn't catch the end of some long-winded questions from the brat. It doesn't matter. Garry corrals the girl away from him, the wolf.

"I should walk you back, Ib. It's getting late." The two hold hands and have the audacity to wave back at him. It was a brief meeting, worth more in questions than in answers. But Garry throws a look over his shoulder and says, "I'll meet you at home, alright?" As always, Garry builds and breaks him with a precision strike of words.

"Sure," he offers a gruff reply. Home. That's where he's heading. Home.

-x-x-x-

Kids at Lowell's were strange, or so he had been told. Growing up in a strange environment left him unable to judge just how strange or normal it may have been. The orphanage was just another place to stick kids like him for the night. It was a strange place, always shuffling kids from home to home like money. Or perhaps it had always been that way. Or perhaps it was just him.

Home was a word, not a concept. It was the place that was willing to keep you out of the cold for another night. That was the general consensus amongst the boys and girls that lay restless in their cots, and Joshua hated it. A sign hanging in the matron's office was meant to reassure them: "Home is where the Heart is." That was what he wanted. That was what every little boy and girl wanted.

And for some, they got it. There were nice foster homes and crummy ones and the in-between ones. There were lucky bastards who nailed the normal kid stuff and managed to get a decent home. There were the luckier ones who maintained a saintly attitude – and oh, how he wanted to punch them all in their lying little faces – and managed to get a permanent home. Everything he had was temporary, even Lowell's.

Joshua had a plan. He had always held onto this plan, slowly crafting and perfecting it. It began as a jealous desire, a childish wish that grew into an obsessive goal. The other children could laugh and cry and whine all they wanted; he was going to get out.

Getting a better life was like rolling a rock up a hill. After a certain point, things just reach their peak and snowball into a decent, happy living. He was still pushing. But things were easier.

Quiet, introspective Joshua was just another person for Lowell's to mold and show off. He had skipped an entire year, and they were thinking of pushing it another. A genius – he never corrected or denied their misconception – had to have as stable an environment as possible to flourish. That term was pushing it, but it was a step up from the other Neanderthals they called children that lived there.

They were always pushing, and he let them. The faster he got out, the better. Joshua had a plan. He was good with numbers. Perhaps he could be a banker. Sure, he enjoyed the delicacies of the English language (or what little of the subtleties he could understand from bingeing on _Wikipedia_ articles), but that was a field with less stability.

He knew how to keep his mouth shut after the first few times being punished. They attributed his behavior to his supposed genius. They were idealistic fools, throwing words like candy. Lowell's has produced a genius! Oh, the fame it will bring them! Oh, think of all the children that parents will flock to adopt in hopes of finding that gem! Oh! Oh!

Vultures, the lot of them. But he knows how to keep his mouth shut. Instead of yelling and thrashing and fighting, he buries himself in the text – algebra, and he is probably nine going onto ten. And when he cannot see straight from all the letters and numbers – really, whose brilliant idea was that – mixing, he goes to his guilty pleasure of fictional reading.

He is not a genius. He can't recite the dictionary definition of a genius, but it is definitely someone who's thought process is exceptional, outstanding, and unique. All he has is more motivation and more maturity than his peers. That makes him stand out in a way that is perceived as "genius".

Standing out is never a good thing. If he was dumber, he could focus all his energy on a single stimulus – perhaps a lovely book about a secret garden. But he can't. He has to skim over the words once more and listen to the background static.

"Weirdo,"

"Rude,"

"Arrogant little brat…"

None of it mattered. Joshua had a plan, and that plan was his top priority. College-bound and genius-burdened, he knew the rocky path he planned would pay off in the end. It had to. It just had to.

Right?


	7. Chapter 7

It is with a blunt detachment that he clears the coffee table and finds the well-hidden ash tray. It wouldn't be the first time he broke an agreement, but he still has to crush the lingering feelings of guilt from his mind. There is a cool breeze now that the sun has left. It is petty of him to shut the window and let the scent sink in. But that has never been a concern of his. Instead, he slowly blows smoke rings into the ceiling to amuse himself. It is a skill he has always been particularly proud of.

He holds out the cigarette between limp fingers. But it is already too late. Her raspy voice whispers nonsensical lullabies, little tidbits that he can't help but recall. Lowell's was the house of the strange, but she seemed oddly normal. Perhaps that was why he felt he could trust her. But she was the cracked gateway that led to a devastating and decimating flood.

Flood cannot be an apt description. A flood is a rebirth, a new beginning. Yes, she was the beginning of the quickly spiraling shit hole he dug and dug until his fingers – long nail-less and bloody – were just as torn and rotten as the rest of him. Horrid woman.

The door opens, startling him from his revere. The cigarette falls onto his jeans, off his jeans, onto the couch. He is quick to pick it up and shove it into the ash tray.

"I thought we agreed not to smoke indoors," Garry remains standing, remains with his coat on. The aggressive stance Garry tries to take is cute, but ineffective.

"Think I deserve a smoke," he pulls out another cigarette from his pack.

"Did you forget to buy cigarettes on the way back?" The pack he holds is still half-full. He takes a long drag, drawing out the silence.

"Guess I didn't," the fact that he doesn't bother to lie further upsets Garry.

"What do you want from me?"

"Answers. Who's the brat?"

"Her name is Ib. And she isn't a brat."

"Is she yours?"

"No!" Garry's fervent denial is enough to prove his sincerity, "I'm much too young to be her father."

"Really?" he fakes insincere belief. Just like that, Garry continues to talk.

"She's nine. If I was her father, I would have been eleven years old. I don't think I was even in puberty at eleven. And Mother-"

Garry cuts himself off. For that, Joshua is grateful. He knows of the woman that Garry calls "Mother". She was a pathetic shell of a person, hardly worth the grief Garry associates with her. When recollecting the memories of his mother, all Garry could focus on was how hard she struggled to keep the two of them going. All Joshua could focus on was the fact that she was clinically depressed and unable to take care of herself, let alone a child.

It is a vicious, unrelenting thought that he doesn't bother to stop: Garry would have been better off if she died sooner. He thinks of sweet little Garry – still fourteen and pathetically longing for love like a normal kid – and thinks of all the couples who would have loved a little four or five year old Garry. She should have killed herself sooner.

"You shouldn't smoke so much," Garry frowns as he opens the pack once more.

"I don't,"

"You're chain smoking. I thought you were trying to quit."

"I told you I'm too old to quit."

"Since when was twenty-four 'too old' for anything?"

"Since they invented student discounts. Stop with the deflecting," He pauses to clear his throat. breathing in too quickly has always made his throat itch. "I invented that one."

"And I perfected it."

"And I taught it to an ungrateful, cheeky brat. Quit the horseplay."

But still, Garry mumbles, "I was fourteen," before finally giving up the pretense. He sinks into the couch with a deep sigh. "I don't know what you want."

"When did you two meet?"

"At the Guertena exhibit."

"I didn't see her."

"I went alone the second day, remember? You had work?" If he could kick his past self's rear end, he'd do it.

"Why her?"

"Is this an interrogation?" Garry grimaces as Joshua smiles, "I don't know. She was just… there." Vague.

"How'd you help her?"

"I helped her read the names and descriptions of the artwork." Vague.

"Why were you two at the bakery?"

"It's more like a shop for baked goods. I promised to buy her macaroons." Deflection. Vague.

"At the gallery?"

"Yeah,"

"Do her parents know?"

"Of course! I didn't _kidnap_ her."

"And they're okay with this?"

"With what?" Garry closes off, crossing his arms. Aggression is something he can deal with. It's easy to get under people's skin. All he has to do is be himself.

"With a twenty year old man taking out their nine year old daughter?"

"Are you suggesting that I would hurt her?"

"No. I'm suggesting something else altogether." Garry goes completely still. He doesn't finish his cigarette, but snuffs it out in the ash tray anyways. It's only a precaution. How much blood will they draw this time?

"That's disgusting."

"And illegal," he flashes Garry one of the widest smiles he is still able to give. He practices this one in the mirror, originally attempting to pull off some sort of genuine joy. But you can't fake what you have never experienced. This smile lies between demented and demonic. He is an animal, and this expression doesn't convey joy.

"I'm not attracted to her."

"Aren't you?" He twists the metaphorical knife, "Those school uniforms sure do show all her pale, white skin. Can't you imagine what she'll look like in a few years? Hell, imagine her in a year or two – with that same uniform. You might catch a glance at her flat little stomach as she lifts her arms around your neck and-"

"Quit it! Talking about ladies in such a crude fashion… Are you sure you aren't attracted to her?" It is a weak argument, and Garry knows it.

"I like my women with actual curves. You've always liked them young. Picking up those little college freshmen all the time. Wasn't one a sophmore in high school?"

"She was very mature."

"She was a twig. As were the rest,"

"Your judgment is skewed. You're attracted to," Garry stammers for a moment, "to _older_ women!"

"Cougars, you mean? Or are you talking about that MILF from the park? 'Older women' suggests that I enjoy wrinkles and dried pussy. I happen to like experienced women. Age doesn't matter, as long as they're legal."

"I'm not a pedophile! Ib and I are _friends_. Nothing more." He wonders when in their argument they began to stand and face one another. It is a brief reprieve, but he notices that Garry is around his height. When did this happen? He feels like he notices less and less.

"Didn't seem like it to me." With the right words, anyone can fall. He knows, and he still abuses this knowledge. It doesn't take hindsight to make Joshua regret the unrelenting stabs he spews from his silver tongue. It never has.

He has a habit of memorizing their arguments. In his sleepless daze, he likes to dissect every hateful word thrown. He likes to know when his argument changes from the logical to the emotional, and just how emotional he gets. He likes to replay the insults Garry throws – and be surprised because Garry's silver is just as sharp as his – over and over and over again in his mind.

It may have been his inherent masochistic tendencies, to enjoy the sound of Garry's flustered voice screaming at him. It may repentance for the equally horrid words he let loose. It may have just been that he always found emotions, especially stoic Garry's emotions, to be fascinating. Whatever the reason, he always found reason to hold onto those passion-filled words.

But the rest of their argument is not to be shared. He would rather hold this argument close. It is of no pertinent value. It is just a slow, torturous crawl into the past. There is much of the past that he revisits, but the weapons they point are all too much. The rest of their argument is something that all good friends go through, where each mistake, each demon rises from the crevices. Things that were shared out of misery, out of anger, out of fear – all these things are weapons.

Garry holds the weapons pointed on a hair trigger at his heart – hard plastic that he has molded and shaped to replace the fleshy organ others covet. They are not all the weapons for there are many things he cares not to share with Garry. Perhaps that is the issue: unequal trade. For all he knows of Garry, the kid knows half of him. He was always bad at sharing.

So he keeps their words between them. Only when he is alone does Joshua immerses himself in the past. He lies in bed and twists beneath the covers and tries not to imagine Garry being the same. He lies in bed and ignores the urge to creep into the hall and listen for the sound of soft snores. If he heard them, would he be able to fall asleep? If he couldn't hear them, would he be able to apologize? Dilemmas are never solved, only avoided.

He lies in bed but does not dream. He remembers.


	8. Chapter 8

AN: The idea of the Blue Lady comes from the book _Runaway_ by Wendelin Van Draanen. I do not claim ownership.

-x-x-x-

Joshua had a plan that went wrong beginning with Evelyn. Every child needs a dream to believe. He was unfortunate enough to begin to believe in her. Whatever "genius" he may have emulated did not stop him from foolishly believing in that woman, Evelyn. For a time, he believed truly and entirely in that entity he called Evelyn.

Huddled in their cots, the little orphan children became curious as the eldest crawled out of bed. It is the duty of the oldest child to inform the new ones. Joshua, though he was not the oldest, had a stable life in Lowell's and was well-informed on the subject. Still, he managed to stay off sleep a while longer to listen to the enchanting tale.

"Have you heard of the Blue Lady?" the girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, whispered. The new kids shake their heads as the old ones begin to smile. Some smiled as she did, indulgently. Others smiled bitterly but still hung onto the whispers with eager ears.

"Tell the story, Liz. Please, please tell it." A boy pleaded.

"She's like an angel ghost. Her hair is long and flow-y, and her skin glows blue. But it's a pretty kind of blue, because she's an angel from heaven. And she can summon a whole army of angels to protect children." The oldest, Liz, paused.

"What does she protect us from?" A little girl trembled in the knowledge that there was even more to fear in this world.

"Demons," even in the darkness, he can see Liz shiver, "demons who feed on emotions like fear and jealousy and hate. But mostly, she protects us from the Crying Woman, a demon that Satan fears."

"Who's Satan?" A different little boy asked.

"The devil, pure evil, God's ex – take your pick," An older boy shrugged almost carelessly. By then, many had begun to shuffle toward Liz. The story, as it always did, drew these children close. Joshua pretended to sleep in his cot next to Liz.

"Shut up, Nel. You don't know anything." Liz hissed.

"Can't prove I'm wrong," the older boy, Nel, insisted.

"Wait, is God a girl?" one of boys in the farther cot asked.

"I dunno. I don't even know a lot about God." Liz sighed.

"Hah," Nel pointed a triumphant finger at Liz, "so you can't prove I'm wrong!"

"Yes I can. Just ask the genius. He's read _everything_ in the library." Liz got up suddenly and pulled the covers off Joshua. "I know you're just faking, Josh."

"I was sleeping," he complained, "and don't call me that."

"Everyone calls you a genius. Now, tell Nel he's wrong." Liz crossed her arms.

"Nel," Joshua deadpanned, "you're wrong. And you ruined the story."

"Hey, you weren't sleeping!" Nel moved his accusing finger from Liz to Joshua.

"Not when you make such a racket," Joshua then turned to Liz, "and you're horrible at telling it."

"What? How?" Liz demanded over Nel's cry of, "I was quiet!"

"Really? The Blue Lady? Who came up with such a stupid title?" Joshua snatched the covers back from Liz and began to roll back into his bed.

"It's her name, stupid," Nel sneered rather impressively for a boy only ten.

"It's a _title_, not a name. There's a difference." Joshua insisted.

"Nuh uh,"

"'Genius' is a title. My _name_ is Joshua."

"So? What's it matter?"

"Because it's a name!" Joshua threw his arms up in exasperation, "It's all you or I or any of us have! And she doesn't even get one. That's wrong."

Light flooded the room suddenly. The children dove into their beds swiftly, but not swiftly enough to trick the matron. "Go to bed, or you'll all miss out of breakfast tomorrow," the door slammed shut.

Suitably cowed, the children laid in their cots in utter silence. It wasn't long before they drifted into their dreamlands, one by one. The Blue Lady remained on their minds. Joshua stubbornly ignored the girl on the bunk next to his. She did not reciprocate.

"Hey Josh," he was silent, "did you sleep?" He continued to be still. "I know you haven't, so stop pretending." There was another pause. It seemed as if she had given up in her pursuits.

Her sullen silence was worse than the persistent whispers, "What?"

"You read a lot, don'cha?"

"Yeah,"

"So you read about a lot of famous people."

"Sure,"

"I bet they have some weird names."

"Mhm,"

"What do you think her name is?"

"Who?"

Liz sat up in her cot and said, "the Blue Lady,"

"How would I know?"

"'Cause you read a lot. I think stories are boring, but I like telling this one. So what's her name?"

"I don't know."

"Well, can't you name her? I wanna make this story better."

"Then call her Elizabeth,"

"That's my name, you dummy," Liz cried.

"Shhh," Joshua sat up quickly, "we'll get in trouble."

"I can't give her my name. That's embarassing."

"Fine, fine," Joshua scratched at his bare arms, "how about Evelyn. No one here has that name."

"Hey, that's pretty. I like it."

"Good. Now go to bed." Both children pulled the covers up. Still, neither slept.

"Josh?"

"What now?"

"You don't just have a name. You have me too." He was quiet and by the time he recovered, Liz had fallen asleep. He hoped it was merely the product of a sleep-addled mind that led her to these ridiculous notions.

Of course he was wrong. The plan he had so carefully constructed had already begun to rot with her influence. Liz and the Blue Lady, Evelyn and Elizabeth – either way, it marked his gradual destruction. When he thought he had been pushing the stone up a hill, he was merely walking closer and closer to a sudden drop. His spiral in life began slow, like the climb up a rollercoaster, but once it gained momentum – well, he isn't sure if he has stopped or if he is still drifting downwards.

Nowadays, he feels like spiraling.

-x-x-x-

It is a mid-sized house in the middle of a nice community only a short walk away from home. He doesn't know what he should expect from it. There is a fence around the yard meant only for small children that reaches up to his mid-thigh. The fence gate itself has a simple latch on it, complicated for a very small child, but meaningless to him. He just hops over the gate to ring the doorbell.

There are wind chimes on the porch-area that shields the front door from rain and sun. Only a light breeze blows, forcing the sound to echo lightly against itself. He doesn't want to be here. While walking to this place, he managed to ignore that shred of doubt that now comes full force, full speed ahead. When he does not think himself out of a plan, he always manages to not think. either way, he makes a fool of himself.

If he is disappointed that the door does not open, there is no one to see it. Why would there be? He isn't supposed to be here, after all. There is a sudden, pressing urge for him to light a cigarette. People will stare. People will remember. Garry will know. He knocks hard on the door, demanding to be let in.

Still, it does not open. He hops over the fence gate once more. A neighbor watches him pass silently. They watch, but do not look at one another. It is the way he has cultivated his image. They don't want people like him in a neighborhood like this. That is a smart decision.

He kicks a rock along the path until it falls carelessly into the street. Maybe someone will run over it, wondering what that soft _thump_ was. Maybe someone will grab it, toss it around in their hands and eventually lose it as well. Or maybe he'll reach over to pick it up, wondering why such a plain rock (and it isn't even a rock, just a piece of the concrete sidewalk that got dislodged) has caught his eye. And as he stares at it in his hand, maybe he'll be run over. Maybe that car will wonder what the soft _thump_ was, and maybe they will see him just before they hit him. Just maybe.

But probably not. He leaves the rock where it is and continues to walk in a daze. Perhaps taking the long way will clear his head. He is only full of uncertainties. It is strange how one can take so many precautions to etch out the lines of what is and isn't, and yet still be confused. That is only a passing thought, not to be delved into. Just the same, this trip was made on a whim and means nothing to him.

The days are getting cooler now, but that is only a reprieve. He knows the summer sun is just resting and will return a blinding haze over them. Joshua takes a last glance back at Ib's house. The wind chimes shudder, both in image and in sound. It is a nice house, at least, on the outside. Most things are the same.


	9. Chapter 9

"…fine, fine. You've been a decent worker, so I don't mind. Just get some rest, Joshua. You sound like the dead." He drops the receiver, letting it dangle from the phone cord. Hanging up would take too much energy. There is a sharp pain in his stomach, or maybe it's his abdomen. Wherever the pain originates from, it has since spread from his midsection to the edges of his vision.

"How much did you drink? Should I get a bucket?" Garry hovers over him to put the phone where it belongs. He wants to snap at his roommate, but that would be counter-productive.

"None,"

"Did you catch the stomach flu? I know it's summer, but you can still get sick if you leave the window open all night."

He has his theories, but an open window is the one he'll let Garry believe. It might have been the couple beers he had to take at a bar on his way home. Or it might have been the pack-and-a-half he smoked over the course of yesterday. It might have also been the fact that he hasn't eaten in a day, or that he hasn't slept more than a few hours for the week.

It's probably the smoke. Smoking on an empty stomach always makes him sick. It is embarrassing that he, a long time smoker of almost a decade, is getting sick from smoking too much. He knows Garry will appreciate the irony, so he grits his teeth and shuts up.

"Should I stay home? You look really bad."

"Thanks," he mutters in a tone that is only half sarcastic, "but you have class."

"I can miss a day."

"_I_ can miss a day. You can't."

"It really isn't that important."

"It is," he insists, "it's very important."

"It's just college." Garry rolls his eyes, "Missing a day isn't a big deal."

"I wouldn't know," he lets out a bitter sigh to calm down, "look, just go to class. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," he hisses half in anger and half in pain, "just go."

"Soup is on the stove." Garry says absent mindedly as he shrugs on his favorite tattered coat and a bag.

"Get out of here," It has always been a sore point for him. Once, he had a plan to get a degree, get a job, and get on with his life. Get in and get out. That was the plan. But he doesn't feel like dwelling on the past today. The physical pain makes up for his lack of reminiscing.

He wakes when the door opens. If he feigns sleep, then maybe Garry will forgive him for not drinking the soup. He isn't ungrateful, just nauseous. A hand touches his shoulder, tiny and hesitant. Bleary eyed and still sleepy, he finds himself staring into a pair of red eyes.

"You need to drink your soup," the little girl tilts her head almost cutely.

"It's cold,"

"Then may I use your stove?" He nods in a daze.

The nine year old girl rummages through his kitchen with some semblance of grace. He thinks of the women he used to bring home who would care for him until they were sick to death of his presence. They had the same ungodly air about them: confidence and stubbornness. This girl has some of their motherly instinct. It is something that grows with time, he thinks.

He sits up, ignoring the way the room spins around him. It takes several tries to read the clock and do the math; he has been asleep only two hours. Sleeping off the smoke has definitely improved his mood. There is a dull ache in his side and his head throbs lightly.

"How'd you get in?"

He stares not because she is particularly interesting, but because his body is awake and his mind is not. It is a practiced movement, some skill that the girl has already perfected in her young life. The stove flares to life and the smell of chicken soup waifs through the air. She uses a chair to stand at a height appropriate for stirring soup.

He entertains the thought of such a tiny girl falling off the chair and scalding herself. But she appears capable enough. Instead of placing his head in his hands and rubbing furiously at the temple like he wishes to do, he watches her.

"I used a key." She blows gently on a spoonful of soup. It meets her liking, so she fills a bowl for him. He is quick to let go of his annoyance at her flippant answer. Children never really understand what they say, so he lets it go.

"Garry gave you the spare?" He doesn't take the bowl from her hands. Instead, she places it carefully with both hands in front of him. Food, soup or otherwise, is no something his stomach will agree with.

"He just wanted to know if you were alright. You didn't pick up the phone."

"He called?" Ib nods as he stirs his soup without appetite. "Figures,"

"You should drink your soup. It's good for a cold." He refrains from rolling his eyes and takes a hesitant sip at the soup. Garry is a decent cook, well-rounded in all the basics. On the other hand, he knows just enough to make a nice spaghetti dinner for two.

"Do you want to watch some cartoons?" His headache throws him off his normal behavior. Rather than letting the silence fall awkwardly so that she will leave, he reaches around the couch cushions to produce a TV remote.

"I don't watch TV."

"Really? I thought a kid your age would be really into cartoons."

"We don't have a TV. Mum says it rots your brain."

"That it does," he takes another gulp of soup. There is a pang in his stomach as his body suddenly realizes that it was lacking in food. "So… what do you do instead?"

"I like the piano," she smiles brightly so that he has to hide his, "and I used to paint. But…"

"Yeah?" he clears the rest of the soup. He leaves the carrots behind, choosing only to eat the celery and potatoes.

"I don't like to paint anymore. I kept getting nightmares."

"Ah," he has no response to the elusive mind of a child.

"Does Garry still get nightmares?"

"Huh?"

"You're Garry's best friend, right? So you should know if he has nightmares." He hasn't felt embarrassment since he was a teenager. He refuses to do so now.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Can you have a lot of best friends? Because I'm Garry's best friend too,"

"Sure," he is too far out of his element by now. When he plays nice with people, they just go on and on with their meaningless words. They fail to realize the weapons they hold and fail to utilize their potential. Words become meaningless in a world like this.

He doesn't recall falling asleep. They chatted for a while and he drank more soup – ignoring the carrots, of course. Hopefully the girl knows it was out of exhaustion and not boredom. Conflicts between the two of them would only cause more trouble for him.

There are no traces of the pain he felt earlier, though there is an ache in his back from sleeping on the couch. Luckily, his headache has passed as well. The constant clicking of a keyboard typing away would not have been good for that. Garry fails to notice his state of consciousness.

"Shouldn't you be in bed?" He rolls his head around until there is the satisfying crack of his bones settling.

"I'm almost done." Garry furiously hits the keys; he is in a state of calm panic. Joshua easily recognizes the signs. He can barely recall the days when he too spent late nights finishing an essay that had been assigned for several weeks. Procrastination was always his greatest motivator. At least that hasn't changed over the years. He never sees Garry work at home, and now that Ib takes up more of his time – well, it only makes sense that Garry now has to play catch-up.

"You sent Ib here to check on me."

"Mhm," if not for the hum of agreement, he would think that Garry was not listening.

"She's nine. What did you think she was going to do?"

"Can we talk later? I have-"Garry pauses to read the time and calculate, "less than five hours to finish."

He lets his head fall back onto the couch to stare at the ceiling. The typing stops again as he feels Garry's stare on him. Joshua is good at playing the waiting game. It is only a moment before the typing resumes, more furiously than it has ever been. Each key is pushed with a deliberate harshness. If he goes outside for a smoke, would that be so wrong?


	10. Chapter 10

"I thought for sure the next time I'd see you would be on the news, dead in a gutter." Liz pours coffee for him in a bunny-print mug. She must get a real kick out of that.

"So much faith in me," He has to look her over with an appreciative glance. Liz has filled out nicely. No more knobby knees or thin stick figures. She looks like a real woman. There's a nice bounce in her step as she runs around the kitchen, looking for a packet of cookies. It's so surreal, seeing her act like a domestic house wife.

"Randy must have hid them." She sits with her legs crossed and one arm supporting her head. "Or he ate them all. That jerk,"

"He's your husband, right?"

"Yeah, you'd know if you came to my damn wedding." He has an unapologetic grin. "Wipe that smile off your face. I wanted you to walk me down the fucking aisle, and you didn't even open the invite."

"I'm younger than you, remember?"

"Never acted like it," She snatches the cigarette out of his hand, "can't smoke in here. If I can't smoke, you don't get a smoke. You're an old man in a kid's body. Always have been."

"You're half crazy," he slides his – Garry's – lighter across the table. "I never grew up."

"Damn right you didn't," Liz slides the lighter back without even looking it over. He pushes it toward her again. She's still holding the cigarette. "You didn't need to. You're an old man, Josh. An old man under all that – will you stop it? I'm not taking a smoke."

"Come on, at least let me have one." He taps a shaky beat on the dining table. It's mahogany, glossy on the top and perfectly clean.

"No, then I'll want one. I've quit. And you ought to too. First thing I've heard from you in years, and you want me to smoke."

"Fine, would you rather reminisce? I remember a tiny gnat from Lowell's that used to follow me everywhere…" He gulps down his coffee, black without sugar. Liz makes a face as she pours milk into hers. Then, a mischievous smile erupts on her face.

"Just like the one you've adopted?" Then Liz is across the table, slamming an open palm onto his back. He coughs up black spit onto the nice wood. It's a mix of coffee and the normal shit in his lungs.

"What?"

"You're a big softy, and don't try to deny it. I hear things too, ya know. I didn't know you'd taken a liking to any of the kids." She rubs circles into his back, first to stop him from choking on coffee, and then her circles become soft arms rubbing his shoulders and neck.

"Are you high?" His head falls back to look straight up at her. The back of the wood chair starts to dig into a particular spot between his shoulder blades. It's irritating on the slightly protruding lumps that mark his spine.

"Not anymore."

"Right. Because of Robby."

"Randy."

"Randy. Of course."

"Well? Are you gonna tell me about the kid? That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"I can't visit?" Liz raises a single eyebrow. He can only pretend it isn't a loss and continue, "Look, you've got a decent set of morals on you, right?"

"Yeah, before I got mixed up with – well, same as you."

"I don't do people-"

"I disagree, and so would a whole lot of angry women. I remember one in particular-"

"You're listening, remember hon? I'm the one with the real problems here."

"Ass," She slaps his shoulder only half-playfully. The only reason he doesn't rub it is his manly pride.

"Alright, I don't _understand_ people. Is that better?"

"Yeah, I hear fewer innuendos in that sentence."

"You'd hear innuendos in a wailing dead baby."

"That makes no sense."

"Please," he says, "just shut up for one moment so I can get the hell out of here."

"I knew you were just using me. Why did I ever think otherwise?" Her sighs are overdramatic and completely unfitting for his current mood. "What's up with Garry?"

"… I don't know." There's a brief pause where he's staring into an empty cup and Liz stops her light touches on his tense body. She lets go of him, circling around so that she is sitting on the table next to him.

"Do you really? I think you know exactly what's wrong, but you're refusing to tell me 'cause that's how it's always been. I know I'm a bit of a spaz and a gossip, but I don't give away secrets – especially not your secrets, Josh. I mean, not the real secrets 'cause everyone knows you used to be a mule so that's not such a big deal. I haven't even told anybody about your obsession with-"

"Shut up." He tries hard not to raise his voice, but every part of him feels tight and anxious and a bit nauseous at once. The tone forces her to flinch away, one arm thrown across her body and clutching tight on the forearm of her other arm.

Words get caught in his throat most of the time. This isn't any different. If he could continue to speak, he'd explain himself. Tell her that he hates to live in the past, and he hates bringing it up. He'd insist that they let these matters lie and focus on what he knows is an issue at the moment. That doesn't change the fact that he lies in bed, thinking of nothing but the past. Or that as he works as a construction worker, a waiter, clerk – whatever his job of the week may be, his thoughts are singular. It's only those times. All the rest, he's living in the present. He tries hard not to think of it, but thoughts are like little spiders creeping up in the dusty cogs of his mind.

"Josh," Liz startles him from his thoughts, "I'm sorry. You don't have to tell if you don't wanna."

"Garry is-"He has no idea how to put it into words. Garry is a pedophile. That's what he wants to say. It sounds so disgusting when he puts it into words. Garry is a good guy, that's why people like him and not Joshua. They pity Garry for graciously putting up with a guy like Joshua. Why does he even care? Garry's his only friend, so he should support everything the guy does. Friends are enablers; that's why he and Liz are still friends. And he doesn't even like Ib, though she seems rather attached to Garry. He doesn't care about any of this.

"Garry's in love." Is what he finally blurts out.

"Is that all?" But he can't say anything more for the rest of their talk other than a few pleasantries and a half-hearted goodbye. They talk – well, Liz chatters – about a few mutual friends and how life has been and even about the weather. For some strange reason, he can't explain why Garry being in love is a terrible thing. In the end, he isn't involved. He won't be involved. Liz gives him a funny look as she chases him from the house. She pats his back, telling him it isn't the end of the world. It'll be the end of the world when Garry goes to jail. Or worse: gets killed by a pair of sensible, logical, and slightly violent parents.

It makes his stomach drop, to see an empty home. That means Garry is with her again.


End file.
